A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  “Sounds good to me,” André said cheerfully, “but can you afford me, I wonder?” It was a question he had been dying to ask. How could this very inexperienced, rather dull middle-aged woman afford to live at the Sylvester where privacy and supreme luxury came extremely expensive; how was she able to request his services from the agency several nights a week? He knew what the agency charged for his escort duties, and that wasn’t cheap either. Where was she getting all this money from? Arabella never talked about herself. He had tried on several occasions to draw her out, but she always clammed up, changing the subject. She appeared to have had no past, which surely meant, to someone as cynical as André, that she did have one and that it concealed something, something he might use to his advantage. If he could only win her confidence, he hoped to discover the secret.

  “I can afford anything,” Arabella had snapped.

  “Lucky you,” André said lazily. “You must have won the lottery.” It was a throw-away line, but he caught the sudden flash of panic in her eyes and realised he had hit the nail on the head. So that was it. How very simple. But at the rate she must be spending it here in London how long would the money last? How much had she won? he wondered as, with wandering fingers, he began to arouse her again. He needed to take her mind off his questions.

  Play my cards right, he thought, and I could be set up for life. He continued considering this new idea as he teased her quivering body to new heights of desire.

  I wonder just how much she is worth? he thought as she shuddered under his hand. This could be the chance I’ve been waiting for.

  From that moment, André set out to make Arabella dependant on him. She would be his ticket out of the escort business and into the life of moneyed leisure for which he’d always yearned. He still had no idea just how much she had won, but so far there was no sign of it drying up. She had even mentioned that she was looking at a flat in Chelsea.

  And, thought André, you need mega bucks for one of those. There was no way, he decided that he was going to let this golden goose slip through his fingers, she was to be his meal ticket for life…even if…a monstrous idea until now…he had to marry her. So what if she was several years older than he, he could always take his pleasures elsewhere once he had her safely in thrall. It never crossed his mind that she might be already married, but even if it had, it would not have spoiled his plans. Despite her stylish hair and expensive wardrobe, he could see that the way of life was entirely new to her, and he became indispensable. He was charm itself, and Arabella, who had been so determined that she would never have anything to do with a man ever again in the whole of her life, found herself needing him more and more. She still had enough hold on herself not to disclose the nature of her windfall, or its amount, but she happily picked up the tab for all their outings, and followed any suggestion André made for their entertainment.

  “We should go to Paris,” he said one evening when they lay in delightful lassitude amid the tumble of sheets. “Have you ever been there?”

  “No.” Arabella had just been about to say that she had never been abroad at all when she caught herself. Her ‘No’ sounded rather abrupt so she went on, “but I’d like to.”

  “Fantastique!” André always sounded more Gallic when he was enthusiastic about something. He knew that it added to his charms in his escort work and he played upon it whenever he wanted something. He loved Paris and to go there for a weekend, at someone else’s expense would, indeed, be fantastic. “It is my city,” he lied with enthusiasm, “and I long to show it to you, chérie. You will love walking along by the Seine and the Louvre and Versailles. Let me show you Paris.”

  “Maybe,” mused Arabella. “Maybe in a week or so. I want to hear about the flat first.”

  And then that fatal Saturday morning she had decided to do a little shopping in the West End, and had come face to face with Karen. Karen had grabbed her arm, tried to stop her from getting away, but Arabella thrust her away and leapt into the taxi. As it drove away she peered through the back window at Karen, left standing on the pavement. Her heart was pounding and she felt shaky, almost faint. It was so sudden, so unexpected. One minute she was looking into a shop window and the next she found herself face to face with her stepdaughter. Arabella had felt the blood drain from her face and a chill run through her as their eyes met and there was recognition on both sides. After the first split second’s shock she gathered her wits and pretending not to know Karen, shook off her restraining hand and stepped out into the traffic to hail a passing cab.

  What bloody awful luck to run into Karen like that, Arabella thought, as the taxi forced its way slowly through the Saturday traffic on the way back to the Sylvester. I never dreamed of meeting her like that. What on earth is Karen doing in London anyway? Shopping I suppose. Arabella felt an irrational anger, and she cursed the bad luck that had lead their paths to cross so unexpectedly.

  Will she try and follow me, I wonder? No, surely not, she wouldn’t have been able to get a second taxi that quickly. It’s a miracle there was an empty one passing just as I needed it.

  Once she was safely back at the Sylvester, Arabella went up to the suite and collapsed into a chair.

  Ought I to leave London again? she wondered. I don’t want to, not while there’s a chance of getting this flat.

  “Oh hell and damnation!” Arabella said aloud, and then laughed. “If Roger could hear me now. I’m not your quiet little mousy Pam any more, Roger my pet, I’m Arabella, and if I’m cross, I swear!”

  She rang down for tea. There was enough of the old Pam in her to feel the need of tea in times of stress and when it came, she took it to the window seat and sat looking out.

  Perhaps, she thought as she looked down into the secluded garden, with its secret walks and arbours, perhaps it would be a good idea to be out of London for a few days, just in case Roger tried to find her.

  She thought of André’s suggestion of a trip to Paris and decided that she quite liked the idea. A romantic few days in Paris with an attractive young man sounded delightful.

  That evening she rang Sylvia and told her what had happened.

  “You should have seen her face!” Arabella said laughing at the memory “and probably mine as well. Anyway, I’ve decided to go to Paris for a week or so with André. It’ll make a lovely change, and then the week after that you’re coming down aren’t you? To look at the flat? I think I’m going to make an offer on that.”

  “Arab,” Sylvia said seriously, “you haven’t told André about the lottery win, have you?”

  “No, of course not,” Arabella replied a little too quickly.

  “It’s just that you seem to be seeing an awful lot of him. You should be careful….”

  “I’m very careful,” Arabella snapped. “He must realise that I have a fair amount of money, because of staying at the Sylvester and using the agency, but I’m sure he doesn’t know where it comes from or how much it is. Don’t worry, Sylvia, I can look after myself.”

  “Like you did with Roger?” asked Sylvia quietly.

  “That was quite different,” Arabella retorted. “I was a different person then. I had nothing of my own. Anyway, I’ve changed.”

  You can say that again, thought Sylvia wryly, but all she said was, “Fine. If you’re sure. It’s just that I remember you saying that you would never let a man get a hold over you again and…”

  “For God’s sake, Sylvia, André hasn’t got a hold over me, as you put it. He’s good fun and I find him quite attractive, that’s all. For the moment he suits me, when he doesn’t, it’ll be au revoir, André. OK?”

  “OK,” Sylvia conceded.

  “Anyway, I haven’t ever been to Paris and I want to go. André knows his way round there, so it seems the perfect way to see it. Let’s face it,” she added, laughing, “I don’t speak much French.”

  “Does André?”

  “Of course he does,” said Arabella. “He is French, for goodness sake.”

  “Is he?” Sylvia
couldn’t keep the scepticism out of her voice. “Men aren’t always what they seem, Arab.”

  “Look, I know you’re worried about me, but you don’t have to be. I’m fine. I’m happy with André at the moment, when I’m not, well, that’ll be that. So, will you come down in ten days’ time and look at flats with me?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sylvia said. “I’m looking forward to it. I could do with a break myself with the exams under way here everything is a bit hectic. Will you book us a couple of nights out?”

  “Yes, of course,” Arab said enthusiastically. “I know some great places to go now. See you when I get back.”

  Chapter 21

  When she reached the police station, Karen was taken into an interview room, while Roger was left to cool his heels in a waiting area outside. He did not have a particular solicitor and so they had asked for the duty solicitor to be called to the police station. While they waited for him to arrive, Karen sat on a hard, wooden chair at a table in the interview room, with a woman police constable standing by the door.

  “WPC Hart will wait with you,” Grant had said as he left the room. “Inspector Crozier will be back to talk to you when the solicitor is here.”

  “How long’s he going to be?” Karen asked petulantly.

  “Not more than about half an hour, I don’t expect,” replied the policewoman.

  The half hour crawled by. Karen sat on the hard chair getting more and more nervous. How on earth had they discovered about the debit card? Could she bluff it out? Pretend she knew nothing about it? Maybe.

  “How much longer?” she demanded as the half hour turned into thirty-five minutes.

  “Any time,” the WPC said and as she spoke the door opened and Sergeant Grant and Inspector Crozier came in followed by a small, balding man carrying a brief case.

  “About time,” Karen said. She had decided that she was not going to be defensive. Depending on what they said they knew, she would answer accordingly, but she wasn’t going to be cowed by any of them. It could well be that they had no proof but were bluffing her, hoping she would confess. Well, she wasn’t about to confess to anything.

  “This is Jonathan Keller, the duty solicitor,” the inspector said, indicating the balding man.

  Jonathan Keller shook hands with Karen and said, “Now I’m here to help you, Miss Smith. All you have to do is listen to what the inspector says and answer some questions. You don’t have to answer any that you don’t want to. If you don’t know whether to answer or not, I will be here to advise you.”

  Chairs were pulled up to the table. Jonathan Keller sat beside Karen, and she felt better for him being there. A tape recorder was placed on the table and the inspector started the interview. The people in the room were named and it was recorded that Karen Smith had been properly cautioned on arrest.

  “Now, Miss Smith,” Crozier began. “perhaps you’d like to tell us where you were last Saturday morning.”

  “I was in London.” Karen had decided not to elaborate on any of her answers.

  “How did you get there?” asked Crozier.

  “I went on the train.”

  “To Paddington?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when you got to Paddington? What did you do then?”

  “I took the tube to Oxford Circus.”

  “And what time was that?”

  Karen shrugged. “I don’t know. The train got into Paddington at about ten o’clock I suppose.”

  “And then?”

  “I took the tube to Oxford Circus.”

  “Straight away?”

  “Yeah, I suppose so. Why?”

  Crozier didn’t answer her question, but posed another. “And when you got to Oxford circus, what did you do then?”

  “I went shopping, well, window shopping really.”

  It was Grant who asked the next question. “You went all the way to London just to go window shopping? Seems a long way.”

  “I just went, you know, for a day out,” Karen said.

  “So, you were window shopping. Did you go into any shops?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t buy anything.”

  “Which shops?”

  Karen shrugged again. “I don’t know, several. Mostly clothes shops.”

  “But you didn’t buy anything?” asked Grant.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t see anything I liked.”

  “Did you go into Grosvenor’s?” the sergeant asked.

  “No.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes. No point in going in there. Can’t afford any of their stuff.”

  “I see. But you went into other shops.”

  “Yes, I told you.”

  “Which shops?”

  “I can’t remember them all.”

  “Some, then. Marks and Spencer, for instance?”

  Karen paused as if trying to remember, but her mind raced. She had used Pam’s card in Marks, but they still had no proof that it was she who had done so.

  “Yes,” she conceded, “I think I did. Yes, I remember now, I walked through, but I didn’t buy anything.”

  “What about Grangers?”

  “Grangers?”

  “The huge media store,” prompted Grant. “Sells CDs, DVDs, that sort of thing.”

  “I did go into a music store, but I don’t know if it was that one.”

  “Where did you meet your stepmother?” asked Crozier suddenly. He had been leaving the questions to Grant; his voice startled Karen, but she was glad they had stopped asking about the shops and she replied at once.

  “Just outside Grosvenor’s. I told you the other day. I was walking along and I bumped into her, literally. I almost tripped over her in fact. She dropped one of her parcels.”

  “How many parcels did she have?” asked Crozier.

  Karen looked surprised. “I don’t know. Several. She had to pick one up off the ground.”

  “So she had several parcels when you saw her.”

  “Yes. And one was a Grosvenor’s bag.” Karen almost added “and another was from M and S,” but she stopped herself in time. Just answer the question, she thought. Don’t tell them any more than what they ask.

  “The trouble is, Miss Smith,” Crozier said smoothly, “we don’t believe you.”

  “I saw her,” Karen almost shouted at him. “I did. She was there, in Oxford Street. She made off in a taxi.”

  “Made off?”

  “Well, you know, just climbed in and drove away.”

  “With the Grosvenor’s bag.”

  “Yes.” Karen was beginning to get rattled now. She had to make them believe that she had seen Pam. “That American I saw, he can tell you. He said, ‘She didn’t want to know you, but I do.’ He introduced himself.”

  “And what was his name?” asked Grant, “this American?”

  “I don’t know, I can’t remember….something peculiar…something very American.” Karen searched her memory, but the name eluded her, and she shook her head in frustration. “I can’t remember.”

  “The thing is, Miss Smith,” it was Crozier this time, “the thing is, we have checked Mrs Smith’s bank account. There were definitely card transactions that morning in Oxford Street….”

  “Well, there you are then…” began Karen.

  “There were four.” Crozier went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “The first time it was used to buy an unlimited day ticket on the London Underground. The next time was in Grosvenor’s Boutique, then Marks and Spencer, and again at Grangers, the record store.” He watched her face for some reaction, but Karen looked blankly across at him. “The tube ticket was bought at Paddington Station at 10.09 am, just after your train arrived from Bristol.”

  “So perhaps Pam came up to London for a day out, as well,” said Karen defensively.

  “Indeed she may have, but our colleagues in London have been to Grosvenor’s and have been given their closed-circuit television footage for last Saturday morni
ng. There, someone is seen buying a hat and a handbag. It is quite clearly you.”

  Blood flooded Karen’s face and then drained away as quickly as it had come. She said nothing. She had never even thought about CCTV. She certainly hadn’t noticed cameras in Grosvenor’s, but she hadn’t thought to look for them. She thought fast, trying to think of an explanation, but before she could speak Crozier was continuing. “There is a clock on the CCTV footage, Miss Smith. It says that the time you made those purchases was exactly 11.12am.” He paused but Karen said nothing and he went on. “The card transaction from Mrs Smith’s account was timed at 11.13am. She also appears to have bought a hat and a handbag. Coincidence? Maybe, but surely if she had been there, on that day, at that time, using her card, you must have seen her.” Crozier spoke musingly almost as if to himself, “She’s not on the CCTV video, though, which does seem odd.” He glanced at Karen sharply and added, “Don’t you think?”

  Karen still said nothing. She could think of nothing to say.

  “And then there’s Marks and Spencer,” Crozier went on. “Someone used Mrs Smith’s card there. “And this one,” he perused a sales receipt, “this one is for two CDs bought at Grangers. I understand their Credit card machine was down, but even so, I must say their sales personnel are pretty lax. This one, though it’s drawn on the same account and signed, is signed not by Mrs Pamela Smith, but by Karen Smith.” He gave a faint smile and said, “You must have gone into automatic pilot there, Miss Smith, don’t you think?” He passed the Grangers receipt across the table, and Karen saw to her horror that she had, indeed, signed her own name and not Pam’s. She remembered the crush in the record store, how she had been almost elbowed out of the way before she had completed her purchase. The sales girl hadn’t even glanced at the signature, simply pushed the docket into the till and shoved the bag of CDs towards Karen as she turned to the next, pushing customer.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Jonathan Keller told her quietly.

  Karen nodded and said, “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “Well, that’s up to you, but there are just a couple more things we need to tell you,” said Crozier. “Of course we have checked with Mrs Smith’s bank and they have given us the details of these transactions. But they also told us something else we found very interesting. Mrs Pamela Smith notified them, in mid-March, that her debit card had been stolen. The theft of the card was reported from Mrs Smith’s home telephone number, and after some security checks, the card was cancelled and a new one sent out.” He looked quizzically at Karen. “It was sent to her usual home address, 12 Cardiff Road, but according to your father, Mrs Smith left that address on 26th February and has not been back since. If that is the case, she could not have reported the card stolen from that phone number and she would not even have the new card in her possession, let alone be able to use it in London in the middle of May. The old card, the one reported stolen by someone, not necessarily Mrs Smith, has not been used either; not since Mrs Smith left the house on 26th February. It seems very strange to us that Mrs Smith has made no calls on her bank account since she left home, until that is, we became interested in her disappearance.”